


Traditions

by yourebrilliant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Feisty, Fluff, Harry/Luna - Freeform, Humour, Redeemed, Romance, Special Holidays, post—hogwarts, snarky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:25:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourebrilliant/pseuds/yourebrilliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traditions are an important part of Christmas.  But what do you do when you’re in a relationship with someone whose traditions are worlds apart from yours?  If you’re Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, you make new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traditions

  
**Tradition One – Hot Chocolate**  
‘Here you are,’ Hermione says, handing over a tall mug piled high with sugary toppings, ‘the first hot chocolate of the festive season.’

I smile down at her and she lifts her own mug in a toast. After I take a sip, I look over to see her smiling at me. ‘What?’ I ask, regarding her suspiciously.

‘Nothing,’ she says, her voice unnaturally high with suppressed laughter.

I frown at her repressively – which has no impact these days – and growl, ‘Granger, I’m warning you--’ Before I can finish my sentence, she bursts out laughing. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother.

‘You’ve got whipped cream on your nose,’ she blurts.

I raise my eyebrow and lift one finger to wipe what is demonstrably whipped cream from the tip of my nose. ‘And you find this funny, yes?’

Hermione is still laughing. Surreptitiously I reach down and scoop a handful of whipped cream from the top of my chocolate. Before she can react, I step close to her and smear the cream along her cheek. Gasping, she reaches up and wipes some of the cream off.

‘Still funny?’ I ask.

‘Oh, yes,’ she says, still smiling broadly, ‘you should try it!’ Suddenly, she reaches up and I feel a handful of cream pressed into my face.

Blinking cream from my eyes, I growl down at her, ‘Oh, that was a bad idea.’ I reach out and set down my hot chocolate. Her eyes flicker from the mug to my face and her smile falters. Our eyes lock for a second before I step towards her and she takes off screaming.

‘Oh, you’d better run!’ I call, taking off after her.

 **Tradition Two – Snow**  
‘Just look at it!’ Hermione calls, running amongst the white-topped flora in our back-garden. As I follow behind her I can hear the difference in our paces; the steady _crinch, crinch, crinch_ of my footsteps and the lighter _crik-crik, crik-crik_ of hers. The sunlight glitters on the snow-tipped branches of my late mother’s rose garden and makes the vast snow-laden lawn blindingly white. Amongst it, Hermione seems a tiny figure, her petite form swathed in thick jumpers and long coats, her froth of chestnut curls topped with a white wool hat, which seems always to be attempting to escape.

When she notices my, more stately, progress, she tuts – I can see it from here – and runs back, _crik-crik_ ing through the snow to catch my coat sleeve in one of her woollen mittens. ‘Come _on_!’

‘I _am_ coming on,’ I retort, ‘in a more refined manner than certain peop--’ I am rudely interrupted by a handful of snow in my face. When I have cleared the snow from my eyes I find that Hermione, and her mittens, have vanished. Or, more likely, _Apparated_.

Immediately I am on the alert. Before she can follow up her first attack I duck behind a particularly tall rose bush and wait for my _Disillusionment_ spell to take effect. Now invisible, I peer out from behind the bush scanning the grounds for my absent wife. Suddenly I see a dusting of snow drifting from a low hanging branch. Keeping the rest of my body still, I carefully reach round and scoop a handful of snow from the hedge. Crafting it into a ball, I raise my arm to throw it and see a face-full of snow heading my way.

‘Too slow!’ I yell, ducking behind the hedge just before the snow explodes against the branches.

‘That’s what you think,’ says a voice behind me, as a handful of snow falls down the back of my neck.

I exclaim my disgust at the melting snow dripping down my back as I grab a hold of her from behind and end my _Disillusionment_. Before she can respond I return the favour, laughing as she squeaks in shock.

‘I win,’ I declare happily.

‘No, that was cheating,’ Hermione corrects.

‘Oh yeah,’ I comment as we turn back for the house, ‘because what you were doing was fair play.’

‘Exactly,’ she beams, falling into step with me. ‘I’m so glad you agree with me.’

 **Tradition 3 – Mistletoe**  
‘Quiet,’ I whisper, grabbing Hermione’s hand as we tiptoe through the snow, guided only by the pale moonlight filtering through the trees. Every time I take a step I wish _Silencio_ worked on snow. Beside me, Hermione squints at our much-folded, homemade map, picking out landmarks as we go. Finally we reach our destination; a grove of bushes, normally unremarkable but currently host to the source of our search. Mistletoe.

Squeezing my hand gently, Hermione lets go as she scrutinises the flora for the best bunch of mistletoe. Keeping half an eye on her, I scan the surroundings. The largest single collection of mistletoe in Britain is also home to a number of dangerous creatures and my job is to avoid any encounter with the inhabitants of the Forbidden Forrest.

After a moment, Hermione returns, breathless and triumphant, brandishing a shiny bunch of green leaves and white berries. ‘Time to go,’ I whisper, grabbing for her hand again.

‘Just a second,’ she says, tugging my hand. I turn back to see her standing on her toes, the bunch of mistletoe held high above her. ‘It’s tradition,’ she adds quietly.

‘Oh, well, if it’s _tradition_ ,’ I agree, leaning closer and pressing a kiss to her full lips.

 **Tradition 4 – Decorations**  
‘Right,’ Hermione says, brushing dusty hands on her jeans as I clamber into the attic behind her, ‘where did you put the decs last year?’

‘Uh, nowhere,’ I say, eyeing her pointedly.

She sighs. ‘You must have put them _somewhere_ ,’ she says, ‘and, since we haven’t been tripping over them for the last eleven months, that place must have been the attic.’

‘No,’ I say, resting gingerly against a tower of dusty boxes, ‘ _I_ didn’t put them anywhere. _You_ put the decs away.’

‘Really?’ she asks. ‘Why?’

I cough. ‘My choice of location was not satisfactory to you,’ I comment blandly.

She frowns as memory returns. ‘It was the end of the bed!’ she cries. I shrug.

‘So,’ I say, changing the subject, ‘where’d you put the decs last year?’

 **Tradition 5 – Mulled Wine**  
‘Okay, wine,’ Hermione says, setting a low fire under a large black cauldron.

‘One for the wine,’ I say holding up a bottle, ‘and one for the chef!’ I hold up another of the quality red wines procured from the Malfoy wine cellar.

‘No,’ Hermione says, taking both bottles, ‘ _two_ for the wine, _none_ for the chef.’ She attempts to frown reprovingly but I know she is no match for the power of the pout, and after a moment she looks away and focuses on pouring the wine to hide her smile. ‘Right,’ she says, when all the wine is poured, ‘oranges and cinnamon.’ She drops a cinnamon stick in the wine and reaches for an orange. Moving around behind her I drop another stick in the wine and pick up the cloves. ‘We only need one cinnamon stick,’ Hermione comments.

‘Nope,’ I say cheerfully, ‘one stick is overpowered by the orange, three sticks is too much for the wine. Oi!’ I cry. ‘Watch those cloves!’

She looks up from where she’s jabbing cloves into two large oranges. ‘What?’ she asks. ‘This is precisely the number of cloves the recipe calls for.’ She waves a clove at the worn and much folded parchment where an old family recipe has been precisely depicted, each ingredient and step written out like a potion.

‘You know I think that’s too many,’ I comment.

‘Oh shush,’ Hermione mutters, shoving me lightly and gesturing to the pile of seeds next to the oranges, ‘start grinding those spices.’

Grinning at her, I press a kiss to her forehead and reach for the nutmeg.

 **Tradition 6 – Christmas Cards**  
‘Sleigh bells ring, mm-hmm hmm hmm...’ Hermione sings, shuffling about at a low coffee table as she sets out the cards and unrolls a piece of parchment that looks like Santa’s naughty and nice list. I smile at her over my recently required reading glasses as I set out the envelopes and uncap my inkpot. I consider objecting to being roped into writing the Christmas cards _again_ but, as she has once again plied me with mulled wine and cookies, I’m feeling mellow.

‘Okay,’ I say, dipping my quill and reaching for an envelope, ‘who’s first?’

‘Uhm...Harry and Luna,’ she responds. ‘Which do you think they’d prefer; the couple in the carriage or the little boy on his first broom?’

‘Broom,’ I decide. ‘Remind Luna why she’s bloated and sweaty.’

Hermione smothers a laugh. ‘Luna is glowing,’ she corrects.

‘Right,’ I drawl.

‘You know,’ Hermione says, smiling at me from the floor, ‘I had no idea there was something that could make you look more superior, but those glasses do the trick.’

I smile archly at her from behind the desk. Hermione’s eyes flicker from the pile of cards to my wicked smile.

‘It’s kind of late, don’t you think?’ she says suddenly.

‘I am a little...tired,’ I agree, stepping out from behind the desk.

‘So...we should do this tomorrow?’ she asks, already unbuttoning her cardigan.

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say, reaching for her and kissing her deeply.

‘Time for bed,’ she whispers when I pull away. I grin and scoop her into my arms.

‘Time for bed.’

 **Tradition 7 – Baking Cookies**  
‘Mixing bowls at the ready?’ I ask. Hermione holds hers up before setting it back down at the end of a line of ingredients. My own are lain out at the other end of our vast kitchen counter. ‘In that case,’ I say, ‘it is now time for the Fourth Annual Malfoy Christmas Bake-Off!’

Hermione smirks. ‘I’m going to beat you this year,’ she declares. ‘Cinnamon cookies with white piping.’

‘Please,’ I retort, ‘don’t embarrass yourself. Nothing can beat my chocolate chip stained glass cookies.’

‘Well this year something will,’ she challenges, eyes sparkling. ‘Now, enough talking. Man your baking sheets!’

 **Tradition 8 – Christmas Party**  
‘Harry! Luna!’ Hermione cries, drawing her friends into an embrace and closing the door behind them. ‘You look frozen, come in, come in!’

‘Hi, Hermione,’ Harry says, wrapping an arm around Luna.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Luna says, smiling at Hermione, ‘the baby doesn’t like to Apparate-’

‘Or use the Floo,’ Harry adds, with an air of long-suffering patience.

Hermione smiles warmly. ‘Well you’re here now. Why don’t you have some mulled wine? And a cookie! Fresh baked,’ she adds enticingly.

‘Hey!’ I interrupt, lifting the plate out of Hermione’s hands. ‘Stop trying to sway the judges.’

Hermione smiles up at me innocently. ‘Sway?’ she asks, wide-eyed. ‘I was just welcoming our guests.’

I raise one eyebrow at her and she smiles and offers me the cookie plate. ‘Cookie?’

An hour later, Harry stands before our assembled friends and calls for attention. ‘The votes have been counted!’ he announces.

‘And?’ I prompt, when Harry pauses for dramatic effect.

‘ _And_ ,’ Harry continues, ‘the result this year – and every year,’ he mutters, ‘is a draw!’

I look over at Hermione who shrugs and smiles at me. ‘I’ll get you next year,’ she comments.

‘Sure you will,’ I agree, winking at her and pressing a kiss against her forehead.

 **Tradition 9 – Christmas Eve Dinner**  
‘Ready?’ I call, lifting a jeweller’s box from the vanity table.

‘Nearly,’ Hermione calls back, smiling impishly at me as she steps out of the bathroom, flicking off the light behind her. She is wearing a beautiful evening dress in a rich emerald green. Her curly brown hair is twined in a knot at the back of her head, loose wisps drifting around her face. I am once again blindsided by her beauty and, despite being married to her for years, I find myself speechless. ‘I think there’s something missing,’ she prompts, reaching up to stroke a strand of hair back off my face.

‘Oh, really?’ I ask, remembering to speak again. I pretend to scrutinise her as she stands before me. ‘Ah!’ I say, suddenly. ‘I know,’ I add, reaching out to stroke one bare earlobe. She shivers happily. ‘No earrings! I can solve that.’ Bringing my other hand out from behind my back, I offer the box to her.

‘You bought me earrings?’ she asks, fake shock evident in her tone.

‘I did,’ I respond, trying to hide my smile. ‘And guess what?’

‘What?’ she asks, lips quivering with a suppressed smile.

I lean forward and whisper in her ear, ‘They match your dress.’

Beaming, she takes the box from my hands and flips it open. ‘Oh, Draco,’ she breathes, her appreciation genuine, ‘they’re beautiful.’

‘As are you,’ I respond, kissing her gently. She returns my kiss before pulling away to slip the earrings in.

‘So we’re ready,’ she says when her earrings are firmly in place.

‘Sadly, no,’ I say, adopting a hang dog look.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.

I hold up my arms, open shirt sleeves visible beyond the suit cuffs. ‘No cufflinks!’ I say.

Hermione smiles at me and reaches behind me for a box of her own. ‘Problem solved,’ she says, flipping it open and proffering it to me. Nestled inside are elegant silver cufflinks engraved with the Malfoy family crest.

I smile at her. ‘What a coincidence!’ I say. ‘You have marvellous taste, Mrs Malfoy.’

She cups my right cheek in her hand. As she smiles up at me I can feel the bands of her wedding rings against my skin. ‘I know,’ she says warmly. She reaches up to brush a kiss across my lips before lifting one cufflink from the box and reaching for a sleeve. ‘Here,’ she says, inserting the cufflink with the ease of long practice, ‘let me help with that.’ I watch her as she neatly slides the material over the cufflink bar and tugs the suit sleeves over my shirt.

‘Time for dinner, Mrs Malfoy,’ I say, smiling down at her.

‘Very good, Mr Malfoy.’

 **Tradition 10 – Carol Singing**  
‘I’m still not convinced that “Santa, Baby” is a carol, Ginny,’ Hermione comments, with the air of a woman having the same conversation for the millionth time and wishing she would never have it again.

‘But actual carols are boring,’ Ginny retorts. ‘Can’t we sing _popular_ Christmas songs instead? It would still be festive.’

Looking at the assembled crowd in front of her, Hermione finds herself, once again, on the wrong side of a foregone conclusion. ‘Fine,’ she huffs, reaching into her handbag to produce a sheaf of lyric sheets for more secular Christmas songs.

As she steps up beside me and holds out the sheets we’ll be sharing, I wrap an arm around her waist and give her a supportive kiss. Smiling ruefully she snuggles closer and takes a deep breath.

 **Tradition 11 – Present Search**  
As I wait for the coffee machine to finish its hissing and gurgling, I lean against the counter and rub a hand over my face. From beyond the safety of the kitchen I can hear the soft patter of Hermione’s feet as she races up the stairs, following the latest clue left for her by “Santa”.

Finally, the hissing and gurgling turns into a sputtering and splattering as concentrated coffee begins to form in the cup. The pattering returns as I reach for the mug and shuffle wearily to the vast oak kitchen table. Suddenly the door opens and a breathless Hermione skitters across the flagstone flooring. I manage to set my coffee on the table just before she flings her arms around my neck. Supporting her weight, I feel the rough edge of a slip of parchment against the back of my neck and smile at the soft words whispered in my ear.

‘I love you,’ she murmurs, before she presses a quick kiss to my cheek and races off again waving the slip of parchment in a distracted wave.

Still smiling, I reach for my coffee and settle down on one of the heavy wooden stools to wait for her to finish searching for her presents.

 **Tradition 12 – Boxing Day Gifts**  
I cuddle Hermione close as we wade through the knee-high snow. Our scarves tangle together as we make our way out to the Owlery, a large sack bouncing against Hermione’s legs with every step.

As soon as we enter the Owlery there is a rush of wings as the owls swirl around us in welcome. Hermione laughs as a multitude of feathers tickle the back of her neck. After a moment the whirlwind settles as the owls return to their perches, blinking expectantly at us from every side.

Reaching into the bag, Hermione hands me one bag of owl treats, taking the other for herself as we make our way along the perches, filling their feeding bowls with the treats and stroking their feathers.

We meet in the middle, bags empty and owls happy. Hermione is glowing with the pleasure of a good deed and I can’t resist the urge to lean down and press a kiss against her lips. ‘Merry Christmas, Hermione,’ I say quietly.

She reaches up and kisses me warmly. ‘Merry Christmas, Draco.’


End file.
